Highway Standoff

I look through the scope of my rifle, aiming at the chest of the 20-something-year-old man.  I’m 45 feet away, but the enhanced view allows me to take in details of what I’m pointing towards. 

The streetlights and headlights mix with police emergency red and blue flashes, cutting through the darkness and making everything more vivid.  Beyond the crosshairs, I see tears streaming down the face of a black male.  Law enforcement has made him the center of attention.

Nothing matters but resolving this situation. 

The man, whose name I don’t know, stands in the median.  He holds a silver handgun to his head.  His bottom lip quivers and he shifts his body weight so anxiously it seems he’s walking in place.

I am there to assist other officers.  My role is simple in application, but heavy in implication.  If the gun moves from his temple and points toward other officers, my job is to take out the threat and keep officers safe. 

Through the zoomed in lens of my scope, I cannot see the officers in charge of the scene.  My focus is intently on the suicidal man.  Officers try and talk him down, but I’m not part of the conversation.  My attention is on his actions, which dictate my response.

It’s been two minutes since I racked a round, making my gun ready to fire.  I use a barrier wall to provide stability and reduce fatigue.  I aim across three lanes of barren highway.  

As I stare ahead, I wrestle with weighty thoughts.  If his arm gets tired, he may lower the weapon.  This is not the same thing as aiming with malice.  My reactions must be quick, but also appropriate.

Other cops work towards a peaceful resolution while I peer through my scope at a sorrowful face; creases in his squinting eyes, quivering lip, and salt-covered cheeks.  I’m flooded with internal struggle.

He is human like me. His life matters.  I lack awareness to what experiences have led this man to this tragic moment.  I wish I could be his friend, offer a listening ear.

I chose this profession to make a difference.  When I applied, I did not understand the challenges of this goal during dynamic situations like the one I’m presented with now.  I long to help, but which life I help depend on his choices.  

He is unstable.  A peaceful conclusion is not guaranteed. 

I notice a sharp pain in my right knee.  The loose gravel digs into my crouching stance, and the discomfort seems to symbolize my uneasiness.  Until everything is contained and controlled, I must be ready to take his life. 

My heart beats faster as I contemplate the implications of taking a life.  I wipe the sweat from my palms and resume my grip.  Will taking his life to save others be any consolation considering the conscious choice of sending a bullet screaming into his chest? Will I be able to handle the heartache of being a Christian, called to love, who (rightly) took the life of another? 

My thoughts are interrupted by “You can’t understand!”  My eyes follow the gun as he points it to the sky, hollering at the cop, turned negotiator.  It’s as though he needed to talk with his hands, but realizes the significance of holding a gun while surrounded by the law.

“Please don’t point that gun at officers.”  I mumble quietly to myself through clenched teeth.  The tip of my finger rests against the cool, metal trigger.  I intentionally inhale and exhale slowly to keep myself present and controlled. 

The man puts the gun back against his temple, pressing it firmly while letting out a scream that seems to combine sadness and anger.  His emotions are volatile, and it is imperative I keep my aim set until he is handcuffed. 

I suddenly notice a faint, familiar sound vibrating my ears.  I don’t have the luxury of distraction, so I don’t look around.  A few moments later, the sound closes in.  The chopping through the night air is the Local News helicopter circling above. 

Despite being in my 30s, I don’t like the idea of my mom seeing me on the news pointing a gun at someone.  I’m also now more aware of the fact that I am a white cop pointing a gun at a black man.  The news lately seems to articulate a disdain for all law enforcement due to the actions of a few.  I think about how pulling the trigger may lead to overwhelming problems for me, as well as my wife and four kids.

Another deep breath.  The tension of the situation does not change, but the gravity of it seems to increase.

I think about not pulling the trigger.  This stirs up frustration because the media and public don’t know my heart and how much I believe his life matters.  How desperately I hope I don’t have to shoot.  I realize that dwelling on how the media will portray me takes me out of the moment and puts my mind in a land of what-ifs. 

Although I have not moved, I concentrate and refocus.  If he shoots and I fail to act, other people can be injured or killed and the weight of that will be on my conscience because they matter too.  Shooting my rifle will lead to a heavy heart just as much as not doing so. 

He begins pacing.  A couple steps to the left, then right. This increased activity shuts out the onslaught of thoughts as I narrow in on each facial expression and body movement. 

“Lord, please help this situation be resolved peace—"

My prayer is interrupted. 

He stops pacing. Eyes change from being tightly closed to wide open.  Silence overwhelms me as I see the resolution has presented itself.  Time slows down as he moves the gun away from his head.  He’s made his decision…which also makes mine.

My finger reluctantly, squeezes the trigger.